Hello Again
by aruyo
Summary: After months on the high seas, a little rest and recuperation with his younger brother might be just what England needs. Gen.


**Hello Again.**

* * *

He hasn't had a good night's rest in weeks.

Arthur staggers towards the house from his coach, heedless to the concerned calls of the chauffeur. He knows that he must look like a common drunkard at the moment, but honestly, all he cares about is the promise of a warm bed that beckons him towards that house. The promise of a warm bed and his colony. That alone eliminates any inhibitions he might feel.

The maid, Marjorie, answers the door, and for a moment she doesn't seem to recognize him. Before she can rush to find a frying pan to beat him with, he raises a hand in reprieve. "There's no need, Marjorie."

She looks at him for a long moment, squinting against the darkness that covers him, before eventually gasping in recognition. "Why Mister Kirkland! It's been so long- You don't look like yourself, underneath all of that dirt? Or is that just a shadow? Oh, please come inside before you catch your death!"

She ushers him in as though it's raining fire outside, and he allows her hands on him only through sheer willpower and the last shred of courtesy he has left. Still, the house feels warm, so it isn't entirely maddening. He allows her a moment to fawn over the state of him, sighing.

"Look at you! Why, I can barely see your skin under all of that grime. And you're dressed like an urchin, if you don't mind my saying so. That coat is positively in tatters, and those _filthy_ boots-"

"I'll be going upstairs now," he says, hoping she will take the hint.

She continues chattering, rubbing her flour-covered hands on the front of her apron, "You'll need a good bathing, and it looks like we'll just have to throw away those grubby rags you call clothes-"

"Please, that isn't necessary right now," he says tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"And some soup would do you good, I just made a pot of it yesterday and it would only take me a little while to heat some up for you with a little bread-"

"I'll be going up to Alfred's room." He says. She looks affronted at the very idea.

"Master Kirkland, you should at least let me get you a change of clothes-"

"I just need _sleep_," he says finally, his patience tested. The maid looks at him reproachfully, but eventually sighs in defeat, because he is the one the pays her, and also because she can tell how tired he really is, underneath the bravado.

"Alright." She says, still skeptical. Arthur watches warily as she shuffles toward the kitchen, certain that she will be coming back with any manner of unneccesary trinkets with which to feed and bathe him, but instead she returns with a single lit candle, which she hands to him.

"Master Kirkland," she says, "I don't entirely understand why you are here in such a state, but I see that you are tired and need your rest. I merely ask that you please refrain from waking the young master. He needs his rest; he's been working too hard."

England nods. "Of course." And then he is on his way.

The manor is very much the same as always. Same décor, same staff, same air of carefree summer days. He had requested as much before he left last time. England doesn't like change, here. This place offers consistency. It offers a bastion of steadiness. Mostly, it offers peace of mind.

He comes to that familiar door and stands there for a moment, eyes downcast, watching the wax drip down the candle unhurriedly. He isn't shy. He is just tired, and weary, but also relieved.

With a hesitancy he had forgotten he possesses, he cracks open the door and allows the candlelight to bathe a sliver of the wood floor in light. It occurs to him that the boy is probably sleeping, so he quietly puffs out the flame and sets the candle gently on the hallway floor, letting himself in.

He squints into the darkness, but the moonlight drifting through the curtains is just enough to see by. He recognizes the room very closely. It is America's room. And America is here.

The swelling underneath the swathes of blankets and sheets is bigger than he remembers, and he has to remind himself that all colonies experience growth spurts at one time or another. It makes him sad, but he is in no position to defy nature, and besides, America needs to protect himself. England knows that he can't always be there to protect the boy. Anyways, the change isn't that noticeable.

For a moment, he forgets how to be quiet. There is no such thing as silence on the high seas, where some manner of noise is always present, be it the tide or the crew or an enemy ship. Still, he doesn't want to wake America, so he tries is damndest to be as silent as possible as he moves toward the colony's bedside.

The room is just the same as he remembers it, as with the rest of the house. There's the bed, the unused writing desk, a wardrobe, chairs, a rug, and the large window opening up to the garden with its gauzy curtains hanging open. The room has the air of civility that England has been missing, but it has something else that England has been missing, too.

"America."

He makes it to the lad's bedside while still managing to let him sleep. His eyes light on the small back fluttering with slow breathing. His gaze softens. He wishes for nothing more than to wake the lad up and speak with him after so long, but he knows that this is selfishness on this part.

Instead, and perhaps because he is simply too sleepy, he finds himself slouching onto the bed, removing only his shoes and hat. It is improper of him to dirty the sheets this way, but the maids will clean it tomorrow. For now, he's been waiting too long. He lets his eyes flutter shut in a brief contentment.

Sleeping in a house and sleeping in a ship are two radically different things. There is no rocking to and fro, no drunken shouting overhead, no knife at your side in case things get ugly. He loses himself in the dreamlike quality of it all, letting out a hum of serenity. The boy at his side continues to breath shallowly. It's almost painful that he'll have to leave again in but a few short weeks…

But he accepts that he is a powerful presence in the world, and that comes with responsibility. No matter how much his heart tells him to stay, he can't. That's just the way things are.

"England…"

He opens his eyes. The boy is awake. The color of his eyes is lost under a fine film of tears and darkness, but England can imagine. A bright blue. A frightened blue. This has never happened before, and with confusion comes fear. To reassure his charge, England lifts a hand to ruffle his hair.

"Nice to see you again, America," he whispers. He understands how he must look, even in the dark. Fully clothed and disheveled, curled up on a bed that is much too small for his frame. His shirt and pants are starched with salty seawater, and stained with blood. He must smell horrible. He must sound worse.

But America declines to comment, merely curling into England as he always does when they share a bed. It's been some time, nearly a year. To a nation like him, this is a short delay, but to a colony like America, it must have been painful. Feeling a pang of guilt, he tucks the boy under his chin.

"I'm sorry," he says. The words sound empty even to him, even though he means them sincerely. Well, even a beautiful song loses its meaning if the bird won't stop singing. Only silence follows the statement, and for a moment, England wonders if the boy has fallen asleep again. It is rather late.

"Did you have a nightmare?" America says. It is said suddenly, but softly, and his voice is thick with sleep. The question is so preposterous that England almost laughs, but he thinks better of it.

"You could say so," he admits. The last few months _had_ been a nightmare, just in a different sense. He feels almost embarrassed to reveal such information to his colony, and he is struck with the momentary fear that America will shun him for it. But this is ridiculous, he reminds himself.

The boy shifts next to him, flipping himself so that his feathery breathing fans against England's neck. England accommodates him, somewhat self-conscious of the scent of gunpowder, salt, and blood perennially wringing his clothing. America does not move, however, and England is surprised to feel those two small arms wrapping themselves around him in an embrace.

"It's okay if you have nightmares," he hears America murmur. "I have 'em lots of times. It's harder when you're not here to help me. But don't worry, 'cause you are now, so I can chase your nightmares away. Okay? And if I have any nightmares, you can do the same for me."

England lets out a breathy chuckle, marveling at the sound. Not even an entire day in the New World and already he can hear himself laugh again. America has always had that effect on him, though.

"Thank you, America," he says earnestly, peering down into his colony's eyes. The blue is clearer now, more resolute. He lets his eyes slide closed and relaxes into the bed. "I suppose I should have come earlier. You're very good at chasing away nightmares, you know."

"As good as you?" America asks hopefully. England smiles.

"As good as me." He confirms. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know that the boy is breaking into a proud grin, but he does. The sight is pleasing.

"Well don't worry, 'cause I'll always be here for you! Even when you're gone for a really long time, I'll always wait. Okay?"

If the guilt seeps into his answer smile, Alfred doesn't notice. "Alright. Now let's say we get to sleep."

Alfred nods cheerfully and nuzzles into his shoulder. "Good night, Arthur."

"Good night, Alfred."

His sleep that night is peaceful.

* * *

**I just wanted to write some fluff for these two. It isn't romantic, of course. More like a brotherly relationship. Or a fatherly one. I don't know, take your pick. In my headcanon, it develops into something different after the revolution, but for now, it's strictly platonic.**


End file.
